


sweet dreams are made of screams

by starciti



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Everyone Has Issues, Gen, Nightmares, please help my children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5169494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starciti/pseuds/starciti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So you cry, and Sans says nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweet dreams are made of screams

**Author's Note:**

> small fic based off of a really good and REALLY SAD comic by m1nktank on tumblr that broke my heart lmao  
> i'll put a link to the comic under this so this all makes more sense rip  
> go check out their art tho it's SO GOOD  
> http://m1nktank.tumblr.com/post/131388795355/tfw-the-human-child-has-the-same-nightmares-you-do

If there’s one thing that you don’t like, it’s blood.

It seems like a ridiculous thing for _you_ to not like — you, who ‘fights’ _monsters_ on a day-to-day basis, who has gotten injured and _bled_ more times than you can count, who has seen more _blood_ than someone your age should — and yet, your opinion still stands. You don’t like blood.

And isn’t it funny, when you hate something _so_ much, and then you dream about it day after day?

Well. If it’s funny, you aren’t laughing.

Like any other night you can remember where this has happened, where your dreams — no, your _nightmares_ — where your nightmares of _blood_ were enough to rip you from your sleep, you wake up with a gasp. A choked, sharp inhale that leaves your breathing ragged as you stare wide-eyed up at the ceiling, taking in the familiar feeling of your sheets that are damp with your cold sweat and willing the lingering images of _blood_ away.

A dream. It was just a dream.

Or so you tell yourself.

Truthfully, you’re unsure.

You’re unsure, in all reality, if they’re truly dreams or not. Really, you’ve no reason to believe that they _aren’t_ — every time you confide in someone and tell them of your dreams, all you’re ever told is that they’re _just dreams_ — and you have every reason to believe them. Why would they lie to you?

They wouldn’t.

But you still do not believe them.

Because now, as you lie awake, staring up at the ceiling and trying to force the remnants of the nightmare away, you find that, try as you might, you cannot think of what you saw as a dream. When you think back on it, on each and every thing that happened, on what you saw, what you heard, on all that _blood_ —

You take a deep breath, and shakily let it out.

That was not a dream.

If not a dream, then what it _was,_ you are unsure of, but your previous statement still stands. That was not a dream — hell, that wasn’t even a nightmare. Whatever that was — that cacophony of despair, of murder, of _blood_ — whatever it was, it wasn’t a dream. Whatever it was, it was enough to send chills down your spine, and give you a sense of unease and utter _fear_ that still lingers even after you’re sure that you’re awake. That still lingers even when you glance around, and see that you’re still in your room, still safe, still _okay_ —

And yet, still afraid.

You shudder.

You cannot stay here.

Not even a minute passes before you push yourself up and slide off the bed, snatching up the sheets (damp as they may be) and wrapping them around your shoulders — such is customary, for a trip away from your room. You aren’t quite sure as to _where_ you’re going, but you do know _whom_ you’re trying to find — you just have to find him, first.

This shouldn’t be too hard, in itself. He doesn’t have a particular liking for moving.

Lately, as your dreams have become more frequent and your need for comfort has skyrocketed to new levels, you’ve become a master of padding through the halls without making any noise — but tonight, you’re finding that it’s quieter than normal, and harder to _be_ quiet. You’d glance around to try and find a clock, but you know there are none — he’s never really cared about the time, so there’s no need to have something to tell him about it — so you’ve no idea what time it is. It has to be late… three in the morning? Four, maybe? You don’t know.

Honestly, you don’t really _care._

Somewhere along the way, your footsteps begin to slow, and it would take a lot of energy to keep you from stopping altogether, so you let your feet slow until they stop. You bite down on your lip gently, and shift how the blanket is laid atop your shoulders as your worries begin to fill you once more — is he even _awake?_ He’s always been one to stay up late when he shouldn’t, but… not this late. And if he is awake, it wouldn’t be this quiet.

You shake your head at your own thoughts, and keep going. So what if he’s asleep? You can wake him up. And maybe you won’t have to. Despite the fact that it’s foolish, you find yourself trying to convince yourself that he _is_ awake — trying to make you hope hopelessly that he’s there, that he’ll be able to make you feel better…

“ — !! ”

Aha! There he is! On the couch!

Half asleep, sure, but there’s Sans.

Despite your best efforts not to, your breath hitches the moment you lay eyes on him, and you _flinch_ — and you know that you _shouldn’t,_ because this is just further proof that he’s here, he’s alive, he’s _okay_ just like _everybody else,_ and it really was _just a dream_ — but you do, anyways. And you think that maybe, it’s not actually the sight of Sans himself that makes you flinch — but it’s the fact that the sight of him brings back flashbacks of your nightmares — the ones of him, and of everyone, and of all that _blood…_

It takes you a moment to notice that your eyes are stinging, and you bite your lip and squeeze your eyes shut before any tears can even think of rolling down your cheeks. That’s it. If he’s asleep, you’re going to wake him up. You’re _never_ going to fall asleep again at this rate.

So you tighten your hold on your blanket, wrap it further around your shoulders, and quietly march over to the couch. And as you place one hand upon the cushion, you really do _try_ to be as quiet as you can — but alas, the moment you begin to pull yourself up, you hear the unmistakable sound of Sans’s breath hitching just as much as yours had, and you don’t even need to glance up to know that he’s looking down at you.

Good job.

“ H-Hey, kid! ” He says, and his voice is more of a breathless whisper than anything else. His voice sounds forced, and maybe even a little _afraid_ — and it’s unfamiliar and not like him at all, but he doesn’t say anything of it. “ What’re you doing up? ”

The sound of his voice in itself is enough to make you bite your lip. Within your dreams, all you ever hear is _his voice_ — his voice, filled with pain, with anger, with _sorrow_ — so, hearing his normal voice, all of a sudden?

It fills you with something. Something you can’t recognize. But it makes your eyes sting and your hands shake, so you squeeze your eyes shut as you try to will it away. Your lower lip is trembling and your hands are shaking, but you suck in a deep breath, and whisper in a hoarse voice.

“ I… I had a scary dream. ”

More than _scary,_ you think, when flashbacks of your dreams come back to you again, and you whimper in spite of yourself. More like _terrifying._ Or _awful. Agonizing._

Words like that continue to be all you think of, and without even realizing it, something wet slips down your cheek — followed by another, and then another, until there are tears wetting your cheeks and dripping down your chin, and you can’t keep them back no matter how tightly you shut your eyes. You whimper quietly as your grip on your blanket tightens, and you find yourself curling into a ball — hoping that maybe, if you become small enough, you’ll just disappear — and the nightmares and the memories and the _blood_ will disappear along with you.

It’s a foolish thought.

But it’s all you have.

Sans doesn’t seem to be too keen on letting this happen.

“ Aw — c’mere, Frisk, ” Is what you hear, for your cries are silent — and you glance up from your knees for just a moment, to see that a half-grin has adorned his features, and he’s holding his arms out in a way that makes your heart _ache_ with how desperately you long for the comfort that would come from them. And you’ve found lately that your heart is something you should listen to — so you scoot forward and let yourself fall against him, having bite your lip to keep back the sigh of relief that wants to escape when you feel his arms loosely wrap around you. “ Everything’s fine. ”

And you almost believe him, too — with his tone of voice gentle and his embrace surprisingly warm, you think you’d believe anything he says right now. Besides, you can trust Sans, right? He wouldn’t lie to you. If he says that things are okay, then things are okay.

Right?

Your grip on him tightens.

Unsurprisingly, you do not believe him.

But this, you do not say anything about.

“ It was bad, ” Is what you find yourself saying, and you realize that this is all you really _can_ say. Because, how else do you describe these dreams? These horrible, terrifying, _awful_ dreams…

“ Yeah, ” Sans says, interrupting you before you can continue. His tone is dismissive, in a way — in a way that says he’d prefer it if you _didn’t_ describe them, because he _knows_ what they’re like, and he _really_ doesn’t want to be reminded —

But if you pick up on this, you ignore it.

“ There was blood, ” You say, your voice a mere whisper.

Sans’s grip on you tightens.

“ I know. ”

There’s something in his voice that you cannot describe — something that makes him sound choked up, and tired, and… well, just — _sad._ Sad in a way that you yourself can _feel_ just by being with him, and it makes guilt that swells up in your chest and just keeps rising — up to your throat, making it close, and stopping at your eyes, once they fill with warm, guilty tears. You bite your lip, knowing that you shouldn’t cry _again_ — but before you know it, your grip upon Sans has tightened once again, and you bury your face into the familiarity of his jacket so that he can’t see your tears.

“ Sans, ” You murmur, and you can both hear and feel the shakiness to your voice — and you can tell that Sans hears it too, because he makes a small noise as his hold on you tightens even further. “ I’m — I’m sorry, Sans. ”

Your words catch in your throat, and as you try to force them out, all you hear is a choked sob — one that makes your body tremble and your lungs scream for air, though they reject any inhale you take. And you know you should probably _stop talking,_ and at least let yourself catch your breath, but you don’t — you have much more left to say.

“ I… ” Is all you say at first, for another choked sob makes its way past your lips. But you take in a sharp inhale of breath, and let your words sputter forth. “ I’m really sorry. ”

And with this, you say nothing more — for Sans decides to take this moment to intervene — one of his hands rubs soothingly up and down your back, and his arms hold you in an embrace so tight, you don’t know if he’ll ever let go.

Personally, you don’t think you want him to.

“ I know, ” He whispers, and his voice is just as choked as yours — though, you’re fairly certain he’s not crying. You’ve never seen him cry, and you’re sure today will not break that streak. “ I know. ”

Despite the fact that his goal was to do the opposite, his words only make your cries more powerful. And it’s not like he wasn’t expecting that — for he sighs gently and rubs your back a little more, whispering small words of comfort into your ear in hopes that it’ll get you to calm down. And, really, you know that it _should_ — that having him hold you, having him comfort you, just having him _there_ — it should at least quell your tears.

But it doesn’t. In fact, it only makes it worse. Each and every word he says is a stab of guilt to your mind, to your heart, to your very _soul_ — and it fills you with that feeling you can’t describe. The feeling that consumes your very heart and soul, and refuses to stop controlling you until you’ve cried out everything that has caused you despair thus far.

And you realize, suddenly, that this is the first time you’ve cried since you came to this place.

So you cry, and Sans says nothing.

And for a moment, it occurs to you that maybe that’s all he can do.


End file.
